


The Only Thing We Share (Is This Small Town)

by puckinghell



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Feelings, Fluff, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Vancouver Canucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-11-08 07:08:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20831405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puckinghell/pseuds/puckinghell
Summary: The point is, that he didn’t expect Petey to welcome him by kissing him square on the mouth, or even by being particularly nice to him. He was preparing to have to explain himself, and grovel a little bit, and he was more than ready to do that.But… he didn’t expect Petey to not even look at him, when he walked into the room.Or, Brock learns that ignoring his problems until they go away doesn't work in the particular instance that the problem he's ignoring is him being in love with his center.





	The Only Thing We Share (Is This Small Town)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea why I didn't write for months than sat down and wrote this in two hours but that's what I did so here it is. 
> 
> Title from Taylor Swift's "Death by a Thousand Cuts".

It’s not like Brock is expecting a welcome home surprise party, with banners and balloons and loud music, and his favorite teammate jumping out of a cake.

After all, he’s barely really talked to Elias, this summer. It’s not that he didn’t want to, it’s just… he was busy. With stuff.

Stuff like his dad. Although Brock knows he can’t really use his dad as an excuse for not calling Elias. After all, if his dad had known that he was dodging Petey’s phone calls, he probably would’ve told Brock to stop being such a wuss, and text back his crush.

It wasn’t just his dad, of course. It was also the contract stuff. Like, he didn’t even know if he would ever see Petey again. For all he knew, he could’ve been traded to like… Florida. And people that go to Florida, don’t ever seem to come out.

But then again, if Brock is completely honest with himself, he knows that’s not the full reason he didn’t call or text Petey back, either. After all, he thinks even if he did end up somewhere like Florida, Petey would’ve probably kept texting _him _back. Because Petey is a great guy like that. The kinda guy that would visit him, even if he went to like… Ottowa. Or somewhere else, where it’s cold as balls. Petey would probably not even care, about the temperature. He’s from Sweden. He’s used to the cold.

Brock likes to praise himself on being very in tune with his emotions. And he knows, that when he falls for someone, he _falls _for someone. He will go and dive in head first, dreaming about marriage, and kids, and white picket fences, and at least three dogs, all of them from a shelter of course, before he’s even had the relationship-talk with someone.

And, to be honest, it was scary, the thought of answering Petey’s phone calls. Because he doesn’t really know where Petey stands on all that. It’s not like they just haven’t done the relationship-talk, it’s… that they’ve not really done _anything_, except kissed a bit in a dark corner of a bar, when Petey was really sad about losing, and Brock was really drunk. For all he knows, Petey just wants to remain friends.

And Brock just doesn’t think he can do that.

Not when he can feel his heart hammering in his chest, every time he even so much as thinks about looking at Petey. Not when mom saw him look at a picture of the two of them – it showed up on Instagram, it’s not like he went _looking _for it – and said; “What’s their name, honey? Are we ever going to meet them?”

And, well, they’ve already met Petey, after a game last year, but they haven’t _met _Petey. He was planning to introduce them when Petey came to the lake house this summer, but, well, that kinda didn’t work out.

He feels bad about that. He did invite Petey, but that was _before_… everything, and he just didn’t invite him again. He kinda thinks Petey would’ve liked to come – and he’s absolutely sure Petey would’ve loved the lake house – but Petey isn’t the kinda guy that invites himself over. Like Brock. Brock has invited himself over to Petey’s place many times before. Petey always used to grumble about it, but it’s not like he really cared. In fact, Brock thinks Petey thought it endearing.

Maybe. Whatever.

The point is, that he didn’t expect Petey to welcome him by kissing him square on the mouth, or even by being particularly nice to him. He was preparing to have to explain himself, and grovel a little bit, and he was more than ready to do that.

But… he didn’t expect Petey to not even look at him, when he walked into the room.

Bo, at least, a true captain at heart – shut up, one day he’ll get that letter – greets him by yelling: “Boes, ya beauty! You’re buying dinner for the rest of the season, I hope you know that!” and then tugging him into his chest, and slapping him hard on the back, in that way that bros do, sometimes.

Brock is just excusing himself for not making it to Bo’s wedding – see, Petey, he was shitty to all his other friends too – when he spots the forementioned Swede, walking through the hallway. He doesn’t even look inside, but Brock knows that he knows, that he’s back.

Everyone knows, by now.

Petey is staring at his feet, and he’s walking so fast it’s like he’s trying to outrun a hit from Tom Wilson. It’s like Brock’s stomach drops out from under him, the way Petey refuses to even acknowledge his existence with a tiny nod, or a narrowing of his eyes.

Bo, the fucker, is more observant than most people give him credit for. He simply slaps Brock on the back and says: “Yeah, you fucked that one up real good, huh, you idiot.”

Brock would ask what he means by that, but he’s fairly certain he knows what Bo means, and he’s not particularly proud of himself for it, so he decides to talk over the subject, and asks about Bo’s wedding.

There’s very little that Bo likes to talk about more than his wedding, except maybe his dog, which is where the conversation goes next.

For a second, Brock is so happy to be back with his team, that he forgets all about the mopey Swede in the hallway. Until Brock is talking about all the weight he cut this summer, and Bo says: “Lean, mean, Petey’s winger machine.”

That, then, gets Brock straight back in his sour mood, and he puts it on the top of his to do list, to crash Bo into the boards during practice, hard enough to make the medical team shake their heads at him.

It really doesn’t get much easier after that. Petey is a stubborn little motherfucker, and when he decides that he’s not going to do something – in this case, acknowledge that Brock is an actual human – he’s not easy to persuade.

Brock manages to get him to break that act, only when they’re on the ice. It’s… annoying, almost, if it wasn’t so great, that Petey and him are still lethal on a line together. Petey barks commands at him during play, in his broken, clipped English, because when he’s focusing on hockey, he finds it hard to focus on language, as well.

Brock knows that Petey finds that really annoying about himself, but Brock finds it cute.

When he scores, Petey even allows him to pull him into a celly hug, although he’s stiff as a board and doesn’t reciprocate even the slightest of happiness. To be fair, it is the pre-season, so none of the goals really matter, but it matters to Brock, because, well, it’s nice to get going in the pre-season, takes some of the pressure away from it, if you know you’ve got it in you still.

And Brock knows that if Petey wasn’t so royally pissed off at him, he would be happy for Brock. He hopes that somewhere deep down, behind all that anger, and those walls that Petey has build around himself, he still is happy for Brock.

Brock doesn’t really know what to do with himself, if that weren’t true.

He decides, more out of desperation than out of a belief that it’s really going to help, to corner Petey in the locker room. He’s lucky, because coach kept Petey to discuss some stuff, after practice, so by the time Petey gets to the locker, there’s not really anyone still there. Well, Goldy is, but he sees the look on Brock’s face and quickly makes himself scarce.

Smart kid.

Brock sits there in his stall, waiting for Petey to finish dressing. He figures it’s not polite to corner a man when he’s in his underwear. He can’t help but stare at Petey, as he fumbles with his gear.

Petey gained some muscle, this summer. Brock knew that, because he got recommended that one Swedish interview of Petey on his YouTube, and he watched it… probably close to two hundred times, even though he doesn’t understand even a word of Swedish, and there were no subtitles.

But it’s different, seeing it in person. It’s like… He’s always been attracted to Petey, since the very first day the guy walked into the arena. He didn’t know that he had a thing for squirly, tall-as-a-tree, lanky Swedish dudes, with eyes as blue as ice and a look that’s cold enough to turn anyone _into _ice, as well. But then Petey walked in, made a snarky comment when Jake asked if he needed help finding something, and stared at Brock showing absolutely zero emotion when he introduded himself, and it had turned Brock’s world upside down.

From that moment on, everything in his life had been about making Petey feel at home.

They became really good friends really quickly. There’s something to be said about ying and yang, Brock thinks, because Petey and him are pretty much complete opposites.

Brock loves people, is a true extravert at heart, and can make small talk with just about anyone. Petey hates human interaction, at least with people that don’t know him very well, and needs some alone time after any major social event. Such a victory it was, for Brock, when “alone time” for Petey started to include Brock, and he didn’t have to go on laps of whatever hotel they were staying in when Petey wanted some peace and quiet.

Brock, as well, thinks he’s generally well liked. He hasn’t had any complains. But he knows it takes people a while, generally, to warm up to Petey. It’s not cause Petey is a bad person. It’s just that he’s, kinda quiet, and his sarcasm gets lost in translation sometimes. He also has the unfortunate aura of someone who would pretty much rather be anywhere else, even when he’s having a good time.

Right now, Brock thinks, he’s not having a good time at all. Petey hasn’t even glanced at him, but Brock knows he knows he’s there. Because every time he moves even a muscle, Petey seems to stiffen, ready for confrontation.

Brock really doesn’t want confrontation.

“Good practice,” he says, his voice sounding stupidly loud in the quiet locker room.

Petey doesn’t even look up, as he mumbles: “Thanks.”

Well, that seems to be the end of that conversation. But, fuck that. Brock can be stubborn too.

“I think we’re clicking pretty well, our line,” he continues. He figures hockey is as safe a topic, as any.

“Uh huh,” Petey reacts. It’s not even a word this time.

“I’m excited for the season.” Brock waits patiently, but this time, no response comes at all. And so, he pulls out the big guns. Out of desperation, mostly. He doesn’t think he can bare it if Petey keeps staring at the floor with such intensity any longer.

“Do you maybe wanna grab lunch or something?”

He hears the uncertainty in his own voice, and hates it. Petey, at the very least, finally looks up at him.

Brock is nearly knocked back with the solid indifference that lays written across Petey’s face. He thought Petey would be annoyed with him, maybe even angry. But he wasn’t prepared for Petey to just not _care_.

“Not really,” says Petey, “I’m already meeting Goldy for dinner, and I need a nap.”

“Oh, okay,” says Brock, trying to keep his voice from breaking. “Maybe next time, eh?”

The look Petey gives him can be described as nothing else but pure disdain.

“Probably not,” he deadpans, and then he swings his bag over his shoulder and leaves the room.

Brock sits there, for a solid five minutes, wallowing in his own misery, and wondering if it’s too late to request a trade.

That’s kinda just how it goes, the following week. It’s like, they share nothing anymore, except hockey and the city of Vancouver. On the ice, Petey is treating Brock like any other teammate. But in any other situation, Petey is staring straight through Brock, as if he’s nothing more but a sprinkle of dust floating around in the air.

Bo, at least, is empathetic.

“Listen, bro, you just need to give him some time,” he tells Brock, one day after practice. Brock is moping in his stall and Petey has already left. With Goldy again. Since when did _they _become such good friends?

“It’s been 9 days,” Brock complains. “How much time could he seriously need?”

Bo gives him a look, but Bo doesn’t know shit about the situation, so Brock decides to ignore that look.

Jake, then, is not so empathetic. He’s also dumb as a bag of rocks.

“What did you even do to piss off Petey?” he asks Brock, from across the locker room, where he’s currently trying, and failing, to get his foot into the wrong shoe.

“That’s left, Jakey,” says Bo with a deep sigh.

“I didn’t answer a few calls,” Brock mumbles. “Whatever. I didn’t answer your calls and you’re not bitching about it.”

“No,” says Jake, now putting the left shoe on the left foot, “but I’m also easy going, and a great friend. I am, however, expecting you to buy me dinner soon. I want an expensive steak restaurant, none of that fastfood chain shit.”

“I want sushi,” says Troy, and Brock gives him the finger.

Brock is still moping when he’s walking towards his car, and spots Goldy in the parking lot, fumbling with his phone.

“Eh, Goldy,” he yells. “You alright there, bud?”

The Russian looks positively frightened, at Brock’s loud voice, but he stands tall as he shrugs.

“Car trouble,” he says, his Russian accent even heavier than normal. Maybe that’s because he’s stressed. “Is not working.” He gestures hopelessly to the car, and Brock would almost chirp him about driving a Hyundai, but, to be fair, his dad always said Japanese cars are pretty trustworthy.

Maybe not this one.

“Do you want a ride?” he asks, because Goldy looks like he’s ready to drown himself in the shower after, well, at least two third of the practices. His face lights up when Brock asks that, and he’s nodding his head with such vigor, Brock wonders if it could fall off.

It’s quiet, in the car, at first. Brock hasn’t really talked that much with Goldy in the past few weeks – he’s usually pretty good at chit chat, but Goldy has always been Petey’s friend first, and he figured that meant he was kinda off limits, now.

That’s why it’s even more surprising when Goldy kinda half turns in his chair to look at Brock, and says: “You made Elias very upset.”

Brock glances over quickly, but has to keep his eyes on the road to stop them from crashing into a lamppost, or something dumb. If he’s going to die, he’s not going like that.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, which is probably way too honest, but he can’t really help himself. Lying to Goldy, with his big brown eyes, feels a little like lying to Petey. It makes the skin on Brock’s arms crawl, like he’s lying to some kinda God, and he’s going to get punished for it.

“I believe that,” says Goldy. “You like him.”

He says it so simply, and so quickly, with no hesitation at all. Brock can feel his cheeks flush; he didn’t think he was that obvious.

“You need to make better,” says Goldy, sternly now. “Elias is not good to be around when sad. Gets very…” he pauses, searches for the right word, then settles on: “mean.”

Brock didn’t intend to have a heart to heart with his best friend’s friend, but here he is, and he’s going to take every opportunity he can get to understand what’s going on in Petey’s head, even if that’s a little tacky.

“I don’t know how to make it better,” he tells Goldy, “because I don’t know exactly why Petey is mad.”

Goldy raises an eyebrow, and somehow, looks just as judgemental as Petey does, when he does that.

Maybe it’s a European thing. Although, is Russia in Europe? Brock has never been very good at geography.

“You don’t call him,” says Goldy, matter-of-factly. “You kiss him, then you never talk again. You don’t tell him about contract thing, or father thing, you just… leave.”

When he says it like that, it sounds even worse than Brock had made it out to sound in his head. He’s also a little surprised that Goldy knows about the kiss. Sure, all their teammates where there, in the bar, when it happened, but he didn’t think any of them noticed.

He thinks back to that night. He’d been wanting to kiss Petey for a long time; maybe since the day he met him. But he never thought he would have the chance. For starters, because finding a non-straight guy in the NHL that’s willing to admit to himself that he’s not straight, is a little like going to the supermarket, and finding that one perfectly ripe avocado. It happens maybe once in a blue moon, and Brock hadn’t expected himself lucky enough for Petey to be _his _avocado.

But that night, Brock had been drunk as hell, and Petey had been complaining about the powerplay, because that guy can’t stop talking hockey, or breathing hockey, even after they get pummeled into the ground by the Leafs.

“It’s not a big deal, Pete,” he had said, slurring his words a little. “I mean, it is, but there’s not a lot we can do about it now, you know? Not when I’m in four vodka soda’s. We’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

Petey had laughed, at that, and Brock had noticed how nice it was to make Petey laugh. He felt smugly proud of himself, for being able to accomplish that.

“I just want us to be great, Brock,” Petey had said, still a little mopey, and that had sent wild firy sparks through Brock’s veins.

“We’re gonna be great, Elias,” Brock had breathed, using Petey’s first name because it felt appropriate at the time. “You and me. We’re gonna be great.”

Petey had stared at Brock’s lips with intense eyes, and that had been the first time that Brock had thought, maybe…

And because Brock is always an impulsive idiot, but even more so when he’s had some drinks, he had blurted out: “Can I kiss you?”

Petey had rolled his eyes. “Really?” he’d said. “You pick _now _as the right time for that?”

But then he’d smiled and yanked Brock forward by gripping his shirt – Petey is deceptively strong for such a lanky fucker – and kissed Brock square on the mouth.

Which is not exactly what Brock had asked. Brock had asked to be the one initiating the kissing, but whatever. He wasn’t going to complain now.

Kissing Petey had been somewhat magical. Firm but soft, and with the same intensity that Petey does everything else with. It had left Brock dizzy with want, and… with something else. With content.

Everything was better with Petey. Especially when they were kissing.

So, anyway, yeah, Goldy had noticed. Which meant that probably, everyone else had noticed too. That could be why they’re all so strangely okay with Brock not telling them anything about why Petey won’t look at him, or be in the same room for more than approximately five minutes.

The thing is. He just can’t get Goldy’s words out of his head.

He just… left.

He had. He hadn’t realized it, at the time. Thought everyone was leaving; Petey was going back to Sweden, so, surely he’d left Brock, in that way, too.

But it was different. Petey had gone home and texted Brock as soon as his plane landed. Brock had gone home and never spoken to anyone again, until he walked into the arena months later.

It’s a miracle, really, that Petey is the only one of his teammates that refuses to speak to him. But then again, Petey probably had some… special right to Brock’s attention, after the kissing and all that.

To be fair. Brock didn’t know that it meant something to Petey, the way it meant something to him. And maybe, he realizes now, that’s why it was so hard to answer Petey’s phone calls.

Because he was already on the verge of losing so many things. He could’ve lost his contract with the Canucks, his space in the NHL. He could’ve lost his dad. He could’ve lost his sanity, most of all.

He didn’t think he could deal with losing Petey, as well. Or even with losing the fantasy that one day Petey could be more than just a friend and linemate.

Brock decides that it’s time to take a stance. And so, after a pre-season game that ends in a win – because he needs Petey to be in a good mood – he waits on his Swedish linemate by his car.

The parking lot is already almost empty by the time Petey shows. He has Goldy in tow, but as soon as the Russian spots Brock, he lifts the corners of his mouth in what Brock _thinks _is a tentative smile, before booking it to his car, which works now.

Petey doesn’t look particularly happy to see Brock, but he also doesn’t run away, or try to get into his car to then hit Brock with it, so Brock is going to take that as as a good sign.

“What?” Petey asks, and he puts as much annoyance into that one word as he possibly can muster.

“I need to talk to you,” says Brock, and he sounds braver than he feels.

Petey snorts, and Brock probably deserves that, but it still hurts.

“You had all summer to do that.”

“I know, and I fucked it up, but I need to talk to you now. Please, Elias.”

Petey narrows his eyes, in that scornful way that only he can really pull off.

“Fine,” he says. “But I’m tired, and hungry, so you’ve got five minutes.”

Which is, honestly, more than Brock was expecting, so he launches straight into it.

“I’m really sorry for not answering your calls or texts. I realize that’s shitty of me to do, leaving you hanging like that. I didn’t realize that maybe, for you, it felt like I was… abandoning you, or whatever.” Fuck, Petey looks even more mad now. “And like, I know you weren’t like, miserable, because I wasn’t calling,” he hurries to say. “I know you have your own life and stuff. I just, I was going through a lot and I couldn’t really handle anything else, you know? I had so much on my plate.”

Petey’s voice is clipped when he speaks. “Sorry for being such a burden.”

“No, fuck, no, Petey, that’s not what I mean…”

“Well, what do you mean?” Petey interrupts, and he sounds like he’s losing his patience.

“I mean that I really liked you, and that kiss meant something, and I’m really, really, so sorry that I humped and dumped.”

“We didn’t hump,” says Petey, and, while that is true, it’s kinda upsetting to Brock that that is the only thing he got out of that. He opens his mouth to speak again, but Petey cuts him off this time.

“And I’m not mad because you left me, or whatever the fuck you just said. I’m mad because above all, I thought we were friends. And when I’m going through a shit time, and my friends call me to check up on me, I answer the fucking phone. Because I know that even if they can’t possibly do anything to fix whatever’s wrong with me, they’re just trying to help, and they mean well, and they’re doing it because they love me.” He huffs, indignantly. “Clearly you don’t see me as such a good friend, if you couldn’t even be bothered to text me a _yo, i’m good bro_, while I’m all the way in Sweden having a mental breakdown because I’m so worried about you. So, fuck you for that.”

With that, Petey walks straight past Brock, bumping his shoulder into him harshly and getting in the car. Brock’s shoulder stings from where Petey hit him, but not because he hit him hard.

He fucked up even more than he thought he had, and he sees now that this not an easy fix. He wouldn’t even blame Petey, if they never got back to being friends. He hopes one day, they can at least be civil, but as he watches Petey gun his car out of the parking lot, he doesn’t think that moment is close around the corner.

And that fucking hurts more than it probably should.

With the way everything is falling to pieces, it shouldn’t surprise Brock when he gets hit from behind and goes face first into the boards.

Bad things always come in packs, he’s learned.

He doesn’t see the hit coming, and he doesn’t know who it’s from, but he knows right away that something isn’t right.

His vision is a little blurry, and when he tries to stand up, he keeps losing his footing. At first, he thinks he can play through it, but then the spotter yanks him, and he realizes that it’s just a pre-season game, and it’s not worth the risk.

He’s properly upset, though, when they put him into concussion protocol. At first, he doesn’t think he actually has a concussion; he feels fine, if a little wobbly on his feet. But no sooner has he crashed on his couch, back in an empty, quiet apartment, and suddenly the room is spinning before his eyes, and there’s stings of pain shooting through his head and neck.

Great. He definitely has a fucking concussion. And he probably should call his mom, because the chances are she saw the hit and is majorly freaking out right now. The thought of having to pick up his phone however, is making Brock wanna hurl, but then he thinks of Petey, being worried in Sweden when Brock couldn’t even be bothered to text, and he calls his mom.

“I just don’t want you to worry,” he tells her, after having told her the story. Of course, asking your mom not to worry after you tell her you have a concussion is kinda like when he hands Coolie a plush toy, and tells him to not break it.

“Is there anyone there to take care of you?” his mom asks, and she sounds so distressed, that Brock briefly considers lying to her.

“No, mom, but I’m fine. I just need to sleep it off.”

“Did you know you can die from a concussion, in your sleep?” his mom says, sounding more and more hysterical as the seconds tick by. “Someone needs to be there to watch you sleep and make sure you don’t die! How about Elias, can’t Elias do it?”

Elias won’t even look at him while they’re in the rink together, so Brock doesn’t think he’d be keen to look at him while he sleeps for 12 hours, but he can’t very well tell his mom that. She’d only worry more.

“Bo is gonna call me every three hours,” he says, which is a blatant lie, but it’s for her own good, he figures. “And if I don’t wake up, he’s gonna break down the door.”

“He better,” his mom says, and after she makes him promise to take it easy, and take care of himself, and go to the hospital if it gets any worse, she lets him get off the phone, which is good, because Brock’s head feels like it’s about to explode.

Which is why he’s not happy when the doorbell rings.

It’s probably his eldery neighbor, who keeps losing her cat, and keeps asking Brock to help her find it. At first he ignores it, but she’s insistent, and the doorbell ringing is not helping his head, so he moves to open the door.

It’s not Mrs. Perez, on the other side of the door. Although Petey has the same scowl on his face, as she always does when she finally finds the cat, and yells at it for running away.

“Petey?” Brock asks, bewildered. He’s not sure what to do or say, because Petey made it pretty clear that he’s not interested in what Brock has to say anyway.

“You’re okay?” Petey asks, eyes narrowed and voice a little too loud for Brock’s poor concussed head. When he sees Brock flinch, he frowns. “You’re not.”

“I will be,” says Brock, because that’s really all he’s got right now. Petey rolls his eyes and then pushes into Brock’s apartment, the door falling shut behind him.

He’s still in his gameday suit, and he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over one of the dining chairs.

“Have you had food?” he asks, and when Brock doesn’t answer, he promptly orders Chinese.

Petey isn’t a fan of Chinese, but Brock is. It’s been cause for many a disagreement, but this time, Petey orders it without Brock even asking.

Brock is too shell shocked to ask Petey what he’s doing here. Besides, asking such a question could maybe be reason for Petey to leave again, and Brock doesn’t know if he’ll survive that. His heart feels less heavy than it’s felt since he got back to Vancouver, maybe even since he _left _Vancouver, and he knows it’s 100% because Petey is voluntarily choosing to be in the same room as Brock.

“Sit,” Petey orders, bossy as always. “You can’t be walking around when you have a concussion.”

Brock is pretty sure that’s not medically accurate, and he knows all Petey’s medical knowledge comes from watching too many episodes of House MD, so he has no reason to trust him on it either. But it’s so _nice _to have Petey here, caring for him, like he cares _about _him, that he doesn’t argue. He simply parks his ass on his couch and puts on a cooking show.

“Bright lights and loud noises are not good for your head,” Petey barks, when he comes into the living room. He roughly shoves Brock’s feet off the couch, and sits in the spot that’s now vacant.

In order to appaise him, Brock turns down both the volume and brightness of his television to as low as they can possibly go without being off.

Then, because he feels a little hazy, and that makes him brave, he swings his legs back up onto the couch and lays his feet in Petey’s lap.

He can feel Petey stiffen, but then he exhales, slowly, and tentatively wraps a hand around Brock’s ankle. His fingers are rough against the bare skin there, and Brock suddenly feels like his body temperature shoots up a million degrees.

Can concussions give you a fever?

It’s quiet for a few minutes. Petey’s thumb is slowly circling the bone that sticks out from Brock’s ankle. He’s not sure if Petey is actually aware that he’s doing it, but he’s sure that it’s making him wanna leap forward and squish Petey into a bone crushing hug.

And maybe make out with him a little.

“You scared me,” Petey mumbles, after what feels like an eternity. Brock’s head snaps up, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid of ruining the moment. Petey is staring at Chopped, like he actually cares about how to make a British roast dinner.

“When you went down, I knew… I wanted to punch that guy. But he was very big.”

Brock can’t help but startle out a laugh, at that. “Please don’t get pummeled into the ground on my behalf,” he grins, and Petey raises an eyebrow.

“I’m stronger than I look,” he scoffs, but then he’s smiling.

It’s the first time Brock has seen Petey smile since that bar right before the off season. He didn’t think it was going to have such an effect, but he can feel his heart racing, and it’s suddenly like he can’t breathe.

Maybe his mom is right. Maybe he is dying.

“My mom said I could die in sleep.” Brock really doesn’t know where that comes from, and he really hates himself for blurting it out, but Petey looks genuinely worried when he frowns.

“Really? Shouldn’t the trainer have sent you to the hospital?”

Brock shrugs. “Mom just said I need to make sure someone wakes me every few hours. To make sure I’m not in a coma.”

Petey doesn’t answer, but his hand tightens around Brock’s ankle, and Brock thinks that probably means he’s not keen on the idea of Brock ending up dying in his sleep.

Which is a victory, Brock thinks, because he was starting to expect Petey to hit him with his car or something.

Then, he realizes what Petey just said.

“You… were scared? Because you thought I was hurt?”

“I didn’t just think,” Petey snaps, “you _are _hurt. And yes, that scared me. Sorry for caring.”

And that’s, no, not at all what Brock wants to happen here.

“Elias,” he says softly, Petey’s name falling quietly from his lips. “I care about you too, you know. I know I messed it up, and I didn’t show you, and I got scared and ruined things. But you need to know that I care, too.”

Petey sighs, seems to deflate. It’s then that Brock gets reminded of the fact that Petey often lashes out when he’s hurt, or scared, or upset with himself. That not always, is Petey’s anger, _actually _anger.

“I guess it’s okay,” he mumbles, barely audible, even with the television so soft you can’t really hear what they’re talking about. One guy is waving around a carrot, looking all excited about it, and Brock wonders what exciting things you could possibly make with a carrot.

“It’s not okay,” he tells Petey, because it’s not. “You were trying to be a good friend, and I was just a scared asshole. I’m sorry, Elias. Really.”

Petey – Elias, it feels weird to think of him as Petey in this moment, for some strange reason – looks up at him. His blue eyes are wide and vulnerable, like Brock has only seen them once before.

In that bar.

“I’m sorry too,” he says. “I could’ve just, I don’t know. I didn’t have to get so mad. I just, it hurt, you know? Because I like you so much and, I thought, you didn’t care about me, so, I got hurt, and then mad, and then, Goldy said you…” He cuts himself off.

“Goldy said what?” Brock asks, pointedly, and Elias sighs again.

“Goldy said that maybe if I just told you why I was mad, you would fix it, and that just made me more mad, cause it made me hope, and I don’t like hoping for things.” He shrugs. “Just leads to misery.”

Brock didn’t even know Elias knew the word misery, but it gets him pretty miserable to think of Elias feeling that way.

“You wanna know why I didn’t answer your calls and texts?” Brock asks, and Elias seems uncertain.

“Uhm,” he says, “I don’t know. Is it gonna make me upset again?”

Brock smiles. “I was afraid you were calling me to tell me that kissing me was a mistake, and you thought we’d be better off at just friends. Or that you didn’t wanna risk getting involved with someone who might not even be a Canuck next season. I didn’t think I could bare that, on top of everything else.”

“I would’ve never said that,” Elias frowns. “I just wanted to help you, Brock.” He bites his lips, his eyes averting to where his fingers are still curled around Brock’s ankle. “I always just want to help you.”

Brock is done waiting, then. He knows it’s probably not good for his brain, but, fuck that. His brain can take an extra day to recover, if it means he doesn’t have to look at Elias looking so sad anymore.

He moves quickly across the couch, until his legs are swung over Elias’ lap, and his hand is cradling Elias’ head. Elias looks at him with wide eyes, and then, slowly but surely, a careful smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Okay?” Brock asks, and as soon as Elias nods, Brock presses his lips to his.

Elias kisses more carefully than last time. He seems unsure about whether he’s really allowed to do this, and that hurts Brock’s heart.

How could he have been such an idiot?

He tugs at Elias’ hair a little harshly, presses his lips more insisting onto Elias’. He then sweeps his tongue across Elias’ bottom lips, and Elias opens easily.

Finally, he seems to understand that he’s allowed to touch, because his hand comes to rest on Brock’s thigh, and the other one at his lower back.

Everything inside of Brock is on fire.

Elias’ fingers make their way under Brock’s hoodie, and he’s pretty sure that the noise that escapes the back of his throat isn’t remotely sexy, but Elias hums against his lips and deepens the kiss, so clearly it worked out for him.

Then, the doorbell rings for the second time that night, and Elias shoves Brock away from him.

“I’ll get it,” he says, a little out of breath, and he basically runs towards the hallway.

Brock lays there, on the couch, half on his back, and wonders what the hell just happened.

When Elias returns, Brock has himself tucked into the corner of his couch, his arms wrapped around his knees. He can feel himself blushing, and he’s pretty sure if Elias leaves now, he’s going to, very embarrassingly, burst into tears.

Elias puts the food that he’s ordered on the coffee table.

“I’ll get plates,” he says, and he sounds so normal, so completely fine, that Brock nearly bursts into tears anyway.

Are they just going to pretend that this didn’t happen? Is Elias going back to ignoring him? Even if he’s decided he’s going to be remotely civil with Brock and nothing else, Brock doesn’t think he can quite handle that.

Now that he’s reminded of how it feels to have Elias warm and compliant under him, he’s not so sure he can ever live without.

“Wait,” he brings out, his voice a little croaky. “Are we, uhm, okay? You kinda, left. A bit harshly.”

Elias stares at him with a completely blank face.

“Kissed you, then left?” he deadpans. “That must suck.”

Brock cowers into himself, can feel his hands starting to shake. His head is pounding, but he’s gotten pretty good at ignoring that, these past 30 minutes.

When Elias sees Brock’s face, he rolls his eyes.

“I’m kidding, you asshole.”

Brock releases a breath that he wasn’t quite aware he was holding. He’s gotten pretty good at picking up on Elias’ sarcasm, but clearly he’s not in the right headspace.

“Thought you knew me better than that,” Elias teases, and Brock frowns.

“My brain has been put through the blender, buddy,” he scorns. “Be nice to me.”

“I am being nice,” Elias says. “This is me, being nice. It’s never going to get any better than this.”

Brock wants to laugh, but he’s still not quite sure what just happened, and why Elias pushed him away, and he needs to be told that he can kiss Elias again, or he might bang his head against wall long enough for it to stop hurting so much.

“But you don’t… You want this, right?” he asks, uncertainly, and something in Elias’ face softens. Brock didn’t even know he could look so soft, his eyes so fond, but he feels his insides warm at Elias’ loving gaze.

“Of course I want this,” he speaks, slowly but surely. “I want you, Brock. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He sits next to Brock, puts his hand on Brock’s knee and squeezes.

“But you’re concussed. And you’re not allowed to do any strenous activities.”

Brock groans. “How do you even know that word?”

“I’m a genius,” Elias speaks dryly.

“But,” Brock starts again, because he apparently doesn’t know when to stop talking, “you’re like, into this? Like, I’m gonna get to kiss you again, right?”

Elias tuts. “Maybe. If you’re nice.”

“I’m always nice,” Brock whines. He’s about to say something else, maybe about how he might _die _if Elias doesn’t let him kiss him again, when Elias lurches forward, and kisses Brock.

The kiss is over way too soon, but it at least helps to calm Brock down.

“I’m gonna get plates,” Elias says, in his bossy voice. “And we’ll eat. And then you’re gonna go to sleep, and I’m gonna stay, and wake you up every few hours to make sure you’re not dead.” He smiles, then. “That would suck, if you died now. It took us so long to get here.”

“I have to warn you,” says Brock, “I don’t like being woken up. I get grumpy.”

“You won’t be grumpy to me,” Elias shrugs smugly. “You love me too much.”

And Brock can’t say that’s not true, so he just decides to say nothing, and eat the Chinese food Elias brings him.

That night, Elias wakes him every few hours, as promised, by kissing the top of Brock’s head, and gently shrugging his arm.

“Psst,” he whispers, “are you dead?”

“No, shut up,” Brock murmers, still half asleep, then turns around and wraps his arms around Elias, pulling him into his chest and snuggling his face into Elias’ hair. Elias makes a sound that Brock isn’t sure is meant to be a content sound or an annoyed sound. He doesn’t really care either way.

“You know,” he mumbles, “it really sucked when you hated me.”

“I never hated you, dumbass,” Elias yawns. “It’s very unfortunate for me, but I always love you, even when you’re being stupid.”

Brock grins. “And I always love you, even when you’re being stubborn, and uncommunicative, and mean, and annoying.”

Elias mutters something in Swedish that Brock is pretty sure is something rude, but he can’t help but smile.

After all, Elias is laying in his arms, and as long as that’s the case, Brock is pretty sure nothing will ever annoy him again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm @puckinghell on Tumblr too if you wanna yell at me on anon!


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